


Old Ghosts

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [3]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014)
Genre: Control Issues, Descriptions of murder (nothing graphic), Difficult Father/Daughter Relationship, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Trust Issues, relationship drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonardo's plans to introduce Celine to the family are put on hold when her father escapes from prison; April looks to begin a new career as a P.I.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Control Issues

**Author's Note:**

> 3rd installment for "2nd Time Around" series; if you haven't read "Canvas", you will need to in order to understand who Celine West is. This one will also have some budding Apritello - nothing concrete yet, but enough implications to make future promises.

“So, I got the city’s response today.” April comments, matter-of-factly; she leans back against the kitchen counter, hands loosely tucked in denim pockets, “They said I passed the background check, all references checked out, and the application should be approved by week’s end. They were especially impressed with my _exemplary credentials_.”

Her eyebrow cocks and she takes a lazy step forward. “Funny thing is,” she continues, “I didn’t have any police-related experience before this. At all.” Another step. “It’s almost as though someone hacked the records system and gave me an impressive but entirely fictional background with NYPD.”

“Technically,” her visitor holds up a hand and clarifies, innocent tone and all, “Some unidentified person happened upon the city records system – which is in need of serious updates, by the way – and made harmless and slight modifications to your background, to include impressive rapport with and knowledge of the New York Police Department.”

“Hmm,”

A pause, and then, “This person may have also added a few officers of the law to your professional references. Namely those who were happy to hear you are pursuing a new career path.”

“And therefore won’t be on the receiving end of my recorder and bothersome questions.” Her smile grows as she strolls forward, eyes never wavering from the large brown ones blinking innocently from behind glasses. “You do know, of course,” she perches lightly on the armrest, “this is all slightly illegal, Donnie.”

Donatello blinks, then sniffs in an expression of adorable defiance. “You deserve this job.” He answers succinctly, “I’m not about to let something ridiculous like lacking credentials or a limited resume get in the way.”

April laughs softly. “And they say chivalry is dead.” She murmurs affectionately. “It’s just upgraded to the 21st century.”

“Which is more than can be said for certain security systems.” He mutters; his eyes look back up from the computer in his lap to her face. Abruptly, he seems to appreciate their proximity. The color rises in his cheeks, and he suddenly becomes very interested in his glasses, fumbling with their position on his face. “Not that I’m making judgments. Or being overly critical. I mean, limited resources and budget cuts and—”

April shakes her head with a sigh. His nervous rambling is cut off with a finger to his lips. “I think you know I won’t tell anyone in City Hall about your opinions of their security system, Donnie.” With a graceful movement, she relocates to the couch beside him. “We’ll keep it our little secret.”

He’s still fidgeting. Smiling gently, undeterred, she nods at the laptop. “How’s our baby?”

 _There._ Finally, the tension melts away, and his nervous expression fades into the relaxed expression she wants to see, all with one simple question that brings the proverbial ball into his court. Technology. Genetics. The curious nature of his enhanced biology. Science and new, innovative theories borne from his imagination. This keeps him at ease. This makes him comfortable.

These are the things only they can talk about. Just them, together. A mental intimacy and intellectual closeness that is unique to them.

Her smile grows as he loses himself in a discussion of their new security system. Their “baby”: a brand-new, city-wide network of advanced software and the latest technology. To her, it’s a thing of beauty.

Her chin rests on his shoulder, relaxing against him. This time, he doesn’t shy away. It only happens when his mind is otherwise occupied. But she’ll take it.

***

His eyes widen. The quick flash of movement to his left registers three seconds too late. Consequently, his attempt to retrieve the stolen item is too late, too frantic, and too clumsy. His elbow hits the wall with a painful thud, and the item is still out of reach. Now, he can only listen and stare helplessly.

“ _Casually mention there’s something I want to show above ground. Accidentally run into target._ ” Celine’s eyebrow is cocked impossibly high, and he knows he is in serious trouble. “ _Bring target down to home – see above for provided reasoning._ And last but not least,” both eyebrows are raised now; he’s definitely in for it, “ _Do nothing; keep sneaking out and making excuses._ ”

Blue eyes lift to find him darkly flushed and staring at the floor. “Leo,” she says slowly, “this sucks.”

He manages to look up. She is propped against the couch. The incriminating paper is pinched between her index and thumb. He can’t believe he was stupid enough to not guard it more carefully.

Her eyes narrow as she cocks her hip. It’s absolutely criminal for her to look that sexy when she’s mad.

“This is really the best you can do?” she frowns at him. “If you don’t want me to meet your family—”

“That has nothing to do with it!” he protests immediately. “I do, Celine. I want you to meet them. I’m just…I’m new at this.”

“Consequently,” she retorts, “you’re terrible at it.”

“…yes.” He sighs heavily, leaning back against the wall, shame-faced, “Yes, I am.”

Her expression softens. After a moment’s pause, she crosses the room and sets both hands on his shoulders. “Look at me.”

The unexpected gentleness of her tone is encouraging, and he complies. “Leo,” she continues, “I hate to tell you this, but the best laid plans are the ones that unravel the fastest.”

 _Don’t I know it?_ How many carefully-detailed plans have blown up in his face? Definitely too many to recall.

“So…” Celine nudges closer, circling his neck with her arms, “why don’t we just see how it goes? Wing it, as they say?”

He laughs, irrationally. “I’m even worse at that.” He says, nevertheless stepping towards her. “You know I have control issues.”

She smirks. “Well, maybe now is the best time to start working on those _control issues_ , Leo.”

There was a very good response to that comment. He knows there was. He’ll remember it later, when she isn’t kissing his neck and her hands aren’t running a slow downward path along his chest and making it very clear how she plans to help him work on this unfortunate personality trait.

***

“Going…going…still going. Going some more. And…it’s gone!” Michelangelo throws up his hands, cheering in competition with the screaming fans on the television. “Yeah, baby! Run, Run, Run!!!!”

“Perfect…” Leonardo is obliged to look up at Raphael’s low murmur. The grin on his face is notably disconcerting, and thus the equally obligatory question must follow.

“What is?”

“Why didn’t I think of it before?” Raph’s grin widens. “Perfect shape and all.”

“Raphael,”

The warning tone finally gets attention. “Mikey’s head.” The large turtle declares, “We can make it a baseball. Just for us.”

“I think Sensei might have a slight objection to sibling dismemberment.” Donatello comments, entering the lair with his laptop and two well-used notebooks tucked carefully beneath one arm.

Intellectually, Leonardo knows this is the moment he should assert agreement and scold Raphael’s violent fantasies. At the moment, however, their youngest sibling’s incessant and excessive noise-making over the last two hours, enough to dissipate the good mood he had been in upon returning to the lair, makes the idea slightly tempting.

Latching on to the distraction at hand, he nods at the laptop. “Everything working good?”

Donatello nods proudly. “Perfectly.”

“And April?” Raph adds. “She comin’ by tonight?”

“No,” The second-eldest shakes his head. “She’s going to see an old friend tonight. But,” he adds, quickly catching sight of Mikey’s devastated expression, “she promised to be here tomorrow.”

Mikey, on cue, launches into a distraught lament, demanding to know who is more important than them and why they can’t come along and be introduced to a friend of April’s because any friend of hers would of course be a friend of theirs. Raphael tells him to stop being a drama queen. Donnie reminds him that April is entitled to have her own friends outside of them, lest she turn into a social recluse like them. Mikey proceeds to question just what, exactly, is wrong with them and the way they live.

Leonardo lets his brothers fence this one while he contemplates silently. Curious thing that Celine told him the same plans for her evening. Coincidence?

Maybe. But then again, he doesn’t believe in coincidences.

***

“There is no need for you to be so offended.” Celine says, rolling her eyes at the scowl being thrown her way. “I simply made an observation.”

“I told you I was spending the morning with a friend.” April’s retort is fast and without waver. “I walk in a little late, and the first thing I hear from you is, ‘Was he good for you?’ Really, Celine? How old are you again?”

“Old enough to know my best friend would only blow me off for _six hours_ if she was otherwise occupied.” A slim eyebrow lifts, mouth turning downward in mock concern, “It wasn’t your dear little rebel, was it?”

The brunette sighs, “You know, girl talk is supposed to fall under the ‘never spoken of again’ rule.” April says, adding emphasis with air quotes, “Especially when it involves ex-boyfriends. More to the point, you know perfectly well my _dear little rebel_ hasn’t been in town for years.”

“One can never be too careful, and don’t change the subject, Miss O’Neil.” She replies, delicately sipping her tea, “Who is it?”

Despite annoyance, April can’t resist a smile. “You want to do girl talk in the middle of the afternoon?” she asks, strolling forward and dropping down on the couch. “Sounds to me like you’ve got something _you_ want to share too, Miss West.”

“It’s six o’clock in the evening.” She answers, but the smile playing along her lips is light and amused. 

April waves a hand. “Details,” she dismisses and leans closer, grinning. “Start talking. Who is he?”

She meets the brunette’s gaze, eyes twinkling playfully, “Someone I’d daresay you’re quite familiar with.”

April tilts her head, considering the words for a long minute. Then her eyes widen. Then they widen some more. “No…” she whispers, before shifting even closer, “You mean…which—which one?”

The blonde shrugs innocently, finishing her tea with a couple more sips. “Well, you have dibs on the brains, so that takes him out of the option pool.”

April turns a rather attractive shade of pink. “I do not have _dibs_ on—” catching Celine’s smirk makes her change course mid-sentence. “Not the point.” She clears her throat and studies her companion more seriously. After a few minutes, she lifts an eyebrow and a tiny smile teases the corners of her mouth. “It’s Leo, isn’t it?”

She only blinks. The brunette smirks confidently. “It is.”

“You came to that conclusion rather quickly, Miss O’Neil.” She lifts a playful eyebrow. “Seems you made the right career change, with deductive skills like that.”

“It’s also about listening at the right time and to the right people.” April declares proudly. “Don mentioned that Leo’s been out and about lately. And it doesn’t sound like it’s for patrol. Not with the grin he’s wearing when he comes home.”

Another blink. The implications aren’t exactly subtle. “A lady does not kiss and tell.” She answers primly.

The brunette laughs and playfully shoves her shoulder. “I think you’ve been doing a lot more than just kissing, Miss West.”

The smile and accompanying shrug is answer enough. April laughs again. “Goodness. How much have you corrupted poor innocent Leonardo?”

She scoffs, smirking broadly as she stands and stretches. “I’ll have you know any _corruption_ ,” she emphasizes the word with a cocked eyebrow and sarcastic tone, “is done with his whole-hearted participation. Thank you very much.”

“Oh good,” April rolls her eyes, reclining back on the couch. “I’d hate for it to be with anything less. As the self-appointed protector of the boys, I would have to take drastic action for the sake of Leo’s honor.”

“Your protective streak is touching.” The blonde winks over her shoulder. “But seriously,” she says, strolling back around the couch and tussling April’s hair, “he’s in good hands.”

The brunette lightly bats her hand away, still smiling. “I know.” She stretches lazily across the couch. “Better your hands than anyone else.”

Her smile tweaks again, her eyebrows lifting a bit higher than before, “And let’s not hear any more about my supposed corruption of Leonardo. I’d hate for you to be jealous just because you didn’t get to yours first.”

The glare April throws at her is both indignant and adorable all at once. “What would you have me do, Celine?” she demands, tossing one hand up in the air, “Pin him to his chair in the lab? He’d have a stroke.”

“He _wouldn’t_ ,” she corrects smoothly, “if you would stop playing the blushing maiden waiting for fair knight to come upon her.” A broader smirk lifts her mouth, “And I’ll point out _you_ are the one proposing a rendezvous in the lab. Who, again, is the one with corruption on her mind?”

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

The retort forming on April’s tongue dies with the interruption. Two pairs of blue eyes look to the door, then back at each other. Silence falls, broken a short minute later by another three knocks. Then April lifts a questioning eyebrow. “Expecting company?”

Celine doesn’t answer and doesn’t need to. The confusion on her face says enough. She steps to the door, peers through the peephole, and confusion becomes unmistakable tension. April stands up, immediately taking note of the changed demeanor. There’s only been a few times before that she’s seen Celine like this. None have been good.

The door is opened, and a stocky dark-haired man in a light brown suit stands with an expectant look on his face. “Miss West,” he says, cocking a brow between her and April, “Not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Of course not,” Celine answers, stepping back to allow him access, “What can I do for you, Detective Marx?”

He looks once again at April. “Maybe we could talk privately?” he says. “It’s a personal, sensitive matter.”

She crosses her arms tightly. “If you’re worried about ending up misquoted in tomorrow’s news,” she replies coolly, “don’t be. I left the business months ago.”

Technically, of course, she was fired. But she’s not about to give him the satisfaction. Celine may be willing to act cordial with Detective Donald Marx, but she’s not equally inclined. He hasn’t changed since the last time they acted out this scene. The condescending look in particular is turning this into a regular case of déjà vu. 

“More to the point,” Celine adds, “I don’t have secrets from Miss O’Neil. So, please, answer my question. What can I do for you?”

He simply shrugs and retrieves a small notebook from his jacket. “I’m wondering if you can tell me about your father’s whereabouts.”

***

It doesn’t take much for Leonardo to determine he really doesn’t like this Detective Marx. At all.

The fact that April and Celine are together, in the latter’s apartment, confirmed his initial suspicions from the moment he’d arrived on the window ledge. From the looks of it, they had been having some manner of enjoyable conversation; exact details had been missed, between the timing of his arrival and the intrusive knock at the door. All questions he’d been entertaining up until that point—how do Celine and April know each other, being at the forefront—were put on hold the minute he saw Celine tense. She doesn’t get tense. Ever. That’s his job, and he does it well. She’s the one who calms him down.

He’d carefully, but quickly, placed himself near the open window. It was a huge risk; the sky wasn’t dark yet, and to be close to the window is to potentially put himself in the direct line of vision of any and all persons inside. Obviously, April and Celine aren’t of concern, but this detective catching sight of him could cause problems.

But he took the chance, and now he can hear everything.

“I’m wondering if you can tell me about your father’s whereabouts.”

He frowns at the man’s tone. Mocking. Condescending. Celine shouldn’t have to put up with a man like this.

“Last I checked,” her answer is carried on a clipped tone; he’s never heard her talk that way, “death row.”

Death row. He nearly upsets his balance as the words hit him, hard. He blinks once, twice, three times, trying to process it. He can’t, so he simply listens.

“Not quite,” the detective replies, “As of one o’clock this morning, your old man and three of our finest citizens checked themselves out of maximum security.” A pause, and then, “Care to try again?”

Celine is quiet for a few minutes. He wants to look and find her, see her face, but he can’t risk it. When she finally does speak, her voice is softer. “I don’t understand.”

“Your dad’s on the run.” The man is talking to her like she’s a child. Like she’s stupid. He wants to break his jaw. “Broke out with three of his death row buddies. Clear enough?”

Celine makes a frustrated sound. “Yes. Got it.” She snaps. “And you’re here because…?”

“Where is he?” Again, the condescending tone. He has to take a few breaths to calm himself. “You two write back and forth all the time. Got the letters to prove it—”

“That a crime now?” April cuts in. He can almost see the glare on the brunette’s face. “Communicating with your own father?”

“Come on, O’Neil,” the man returns, “use your reporter brain for a minute. Writing to her father, the NYC Butcher, who she testified against in court? Don’t know what you all call it, but in my business, the term is suspicious.”

“He’s my _father_.” Celine replies. Her tone is sub-arctic. “And if you’ll recall, Detective, I didn’t testify willingly. You put me on that stand with something called a _subpoena_. And it’s still my right to communicate with the man who raised me.”

“So I ask again,” Marx says, “where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Celine answers. “He wouldn’t involve me in something like this.”

“Like he didn’t involve you in sixty-five murders?” the detective retorts, “Like he kept you so in the dark that you knew nothing about your dad taking out gang-bangers and street thugs?”

“Where I come from,” April comments dryly, “we call that an act of public service.”

“April,” Celine’s tone is a warning, not unlike the kind he often uses with his brothers. It seems to work; he doesn’t hear April protest or comment further.

“Detective Marx,” she continues, “I’ll say this again: I don’t know where my father is. He never indicated any plans of escape to me, and I’m sure you have the letters to prove it. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’d like you to leave. Now.”

Silence. And then, “Remember this, West,” he says slowly, “if I find out you’re lying, you just might find yourself sharing a cell with Daddy.”

He clenches both hands down on his thighs, hard. He forces himself to think of the Hashi, of Sensei, of self-control and discipline, before he follows through on the burning urge to shatter this man’s skull. _No one_ threatens Celine. _His_ Celine. _No one._

The blood stops rushing through his ears a few minutes later. He hears April release a heavy, irate sigh, “Good riddance,” she mutters, “I thought we were done with that jackass five years ago.”

“It would seem we were overly optimistic.” Celine’s voice is soft again. She sounds exhausted. And she sounds incredibly, unbearably depressed. His heart clenches tightly at the sound of what he suspects is a broken sob at the back of her throat. Don’t cry. _Please don’t cry._

April must take note of it too; he hears footsteps, and then the brunette speaks again, in a gentler tone, “Don’t let him get to you, Celine. You said it yourself – your dad wouldn’t have involved you in this. He’d want to keep you safe. Just like before.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Celine says, either not hearing or ignoring April’s words. He can hear frantic pacing, not too far from the window. “He pled guilty. Never even hired a defense attorney. Wrote a ten page letter to the judge, telling her to put him on death row. And now, five years later, he breaks out? With three other convicts?” 

The pacing stops. “Tell me that makes sense to you, April.” Celine demands. Her voice is shaking.

April makes a quiet, thoughtful sound. “Celine, I’m not sure how to put this gently…” a pause, “ _You_ don’t make sense to me. You’re about the strangest human being I’ve ever met in my life – and that’s saying a lot. So I’m probably not the best person to ask if your _dad_ – the one who raised you – makes sense either. You understand?”

Celine is silent, and then she makes what could be a soft, but broken, wisp of laughter. “Fair enough.” She murmurs, then sighs heavily. “Still though…it doesn’t make sense. I…I just don’t understand.”

“Maybe getting some sleep will help, no?” April offers, her tone encouraging. “You look like you could use it.” She takes two steps, probably closer to Celine. “Seriously…get some sleep. Follow your own advice.”

“Hmm,” Celine replies quietly. She sounds distracted. “Go home, April. You’ve been working too many hours the past week.”

“The city isn’t going to protect itself.” April declares, but she takes several steps away. Then the door opens. “I mean it, Celine. You need to sleep. Worrying about it won’t help.”

The door closes behind her. He counts eighty seconds. No one comes back in. He hears Celine drop heavily on the couch. He hears a shuddering breath and what sounds like another stifled sob. He swallows quietly. He should probably leave. The questions running frantically through his mind will probably just make things worse.

He really should leave.


	2. A Stranger in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lover's quarrel and a conversation with an unexpected stranger.

“Sixty-five?”

She blinks, momentarily uncertain if she heard correctly. But she can feel his gaze, and she knows his voice. For a fleeting second, she feels joy and revels in his presence. And then, just as quickly as it came, the happiness is gone with the question.

Sighing quietly, she lifts her head in a short nod. He moves off the sill, soft steps approaching slowly. “Your father killed them all? Every last one?”

“So they told me.” She answers. The memories are bitter, at best: being escorted into a courtroom; her father and only living parent sitting in a dark red jumpsuit, hands bound with shackles; a stranger in an expensive suit greeting her with a smile one minute, then interrogating her the next; the man she would later know as Detective Donald Marx sitting and shaking his head as she answered questions, clearly doubting her words and insistence that she knew nothing of her father’s crimes. No one had believed her.

She remembers her father’s face when she’d walked in. How he’d stood before being forced back down in the chair. How he had watched her testify against him with a blank face and apologetic eyes. She’d known, in that moment, he had never wanted her to be there. He had let her live in ignorance. Encouraged her naivety.

Leonardo kneels in front of her. She doesn’t like the look on his face. She really doesn’t like the next question out of his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

She stares at him for a long, incredulous moment. “Are you serious?” she finally says. “I’ve mentioned it to you before—”

“You told me what you wanted me to know.” He interrupts. “Not the whole story.”

“Exactly!” she abruptly stands, crossing around to the window. “I told you what I wanted you to know. The good times, when we were a family and happy and together. Not what happened afterward, when a gangbanger put a bullet in my mother’s head. Not about the way I got a knock on the door and a stranger told me I needed to show up in court and tell more strangers about how my father was a monster and a murderer. And not about how the whole bloody city thinks I’m a liar because I swore I knew nothing about my dad’s crimes. The truth is, I _didn’t_!”

She takes a slow, shuddering breath. She’s crying. “I didn’t question him when he said he was working late or going out of town.” She whispers into the night air, not facing him. “Because I’m guilty of believing in the best of people. My dad taught me to see the good in people. In this world. So, yes, I believed in him. Maybe I should have doubted and questioned, but that’s not who I am.”

“Celine,” he sets a hand to her shoulder. She jerks away. The tears scatter and smear as she shakes her head.

“No,” she shakes her head again. “No. I told you the good parts of the story. If you wanted all of it, you should have asked. I wouldn’t have liked it, but I would have told you. Don’t blame me because you chose not to ask.”

She meets his eyes. “Choices, Leonardo. It’s always about choices.”

“And your father?” he asks, but he sounds defeated now. “What about his choices?”

A low, sad sound; she shakes her head again. “His choices cost me the only parent I had left. But I forgave him.” She looks at him again. “That’s what you do for the ones you love, Leonardo. You stand by them, no matter what.”

After a minute, she shrugs. “Maybe if you could talk to him yourself, you’d understand.”

***

The night is pleasantly warm, and the park is abandoned at the late hour. He sits on a bench, elbows on his thighs, staring into the shadows. The lamps are well-lit, but few in number. The nearest one is twenty feet away; only a faded glow brushes his silhouette.

To the jumbled musings of his mind, that lamp is Celine: his light, his warmth, his source of happiness in this life. The candle in the window to lead him back each night. The one who sees good where he only sees bad; who sees even the tiniest bit of happiness and comfort where he only sees despair and loss. The one who can smile and assure herself—and by default, him—that somehow, some way, everything will turn out alright in the end.

And now she’s a million miles away. Because of him.

Would it really have been so awful to not know the whole story? To know just the happy memories? He’d been content to know only what she wanted him to know, and then he let a stranger change his mind? He let someone else come between them, because he wasn’t strong enough. He let insecurity wriggle it’s way in and then he let it ruin everything. He made her upset. Made her cry. She should never cry.

He sighs heavily. Why is he only good at making things worse? Shouldn’t being the eldest, the chosen leader, mean he can occasionally do _something_ right?

Alas, other than delivering a good hit in combat, he just screws things up. He’s terrible at connecting with his brothers, quicker to scold them than praise and comfort. He lingers in the backdrop whenever April comes by and refuses to socialize, quicker to disappear within the dojo or his room than join the family and smile and laugh with them. And now, he’s hurt the one he loves, for no better reason than he thought knowing the whole truth would make things better.

“Is this a private place, or can an old man join you?”

Instinctive desires to refuse and retreat collide rather abruptly with his current state of emotional exhaustion. The little bit of remaining logic reminds him it is dark. He has hidden his body in a large, bulky overcoat and jeans. Only his head is exposed, and it isn’t illuminated enough in this place to show much of anything, other than a hairless skull. Fortunately, there are stranger things to see in this city.

He nods mutely. The bench creaks quietly as the weight of another body sits at the other end. After a minute, he chances a look at his companion. From what little he can determine in the dark, it’s a tall man, built broad in the shoulders and chest, with head shaved bald. He seems quite at ease, even in the dark with a complete stranger. Odd thing to see, especially when the stranger easily has thirty pounds on him.

“What brings you out here at this hour?” the stranger asks, reclining back against the wood. The fabric he’s wearing rustles loudly with the movement. Denim, maybe? Maybe not. It doesn’t sound like cotton or a similar type.

He shrugs idly. “Just thinking.”

The man makes a thoughtful sound. “Penny for your thoughts?”

A movement at his side makes him look down. And then he has to look again, because he’s pretty sure the stranger is actually holding out a penny to him. It’s hard to tell for absolute certain…but it’s a coin, and it’s small.

_If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…_

He takes the coin after another short pause, making sure to not brush too much skin, and quietly murmurs thanks. For a minute, he thinks about what this man could want, inquiring about his thoughts like this. And then he hears Celine’s voice, from the far reaches of his mind: _Don’t question everyone and everything. Life is simpler that way._

He smiles to himself. Then he sighs. “May I ask you a question, sir?”

The man chuckles. “I’d be honored, son.” He answers. His voice is warm and pleasant. “But none of that ‘sir’ business. I haven’t been ‘sir’ in almost six years. Call me Dominic.”

“Dominic,” he repeats softly. The suspicious nature of his upbringing is protesting, loudly, at this familiarity. He doesn’t know this man. This man could have a gun, or knife; be lulling him into a trap. This man could have some connections to the Foot Clan, or—

_Don’t question everyone and everything._

He releases a slow, careful breath. _Alright._ Maybe it’s time to try seeing life—and people—through her eyes. Maybe then he won’t screw things up so easily.

“Dominic,” he repeats, feeling rather foolish for the question about to come out of his mouth, but the words are escaping and he doesn’t know how to drag them back. “When…when you love someone…how long does it take for you to stop…being selfish?”

An awkward silence falls, and he struggles to redeem himself. “I mean, you love them. Why would you need to know more about them…than they tell you?” He really needs to stop talking. “It should be enough. You shouldn’t need…” He should have stopped talking a few minutes ago. “…to know anything more.”

Dominic chuckles again. For a painful moment, he wonders if he is being mocked for an absolutely ridiculous question and even more absurd rambling. But then, “You’re not used to being selfish, are you?”

He sighs, half in relief and half in agreement. “No. It’s not how I was raised. I…don’t know how to…do this right. Any of this.”

“Then let me point something out to you, son.” Dominic says, tone almost fatherly. “Falling in love is the most selfish thing a person can do.”

He pauses. Then he blinks. And then a small frown creases his brow. “What?”

“Think about it.” The elder continues. “You’re asking someone for their heart. Every piece of them. You’re asking someone to see all of you – good, bad, and everything in between – and accept it, without reservations or hesitation. You’re showing your faults and asking that person to love you anyway. It’s selfish, pure and simple.”

“Then why do people feel it?” he whispers. He can feel a sudden, overwhelming sense of despair, and he doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand why. Was this just further proof of humanity’s corruption? Proof of his own corruption? And if so, does it mean he has corrupted Celine? Celine, who exists far above the sins of this world, with her gentle heart and compassionate soul…has he brought her down with his selfish desires? If so, then the only thing to do – _the most honorable thing to do_ – would be to let her go.

In the same moment he experiences the mere thought, a crushing blow hits him full-force. Let her go? It would be honorable, but she has so much of him. His heart, his every waking thought…his body. If he lets her go, it will kill him.

“I worked these streets for close to twenty years.” Dominic says. There is a slow, thoughtful, but saddened tinge to his voice that grabs attention and holds it. “Patrol, captain, lieutenant, the whole nine yards. I saw things you’d never believe. But for all the ugliness I saw, I also saw the kindness of strangers, the willingness to do right even when they got nothing in return, the courage to risk it all for the sake of justice. And it convinced me of one thing.”

He feels the elder look his way. After a minute, he returns the gaze. They can’t see each other, but he feels the man’s gaze and he’s sure the man can feel his. “There’s some good in this world, son.” Dominic murmurs. “It’s hidden, not always easy to spot. But it’s there.”

A pause, and then, “I raised my little girl to see the world like that. It made her different. Not like most of the kids she was around growing up. But she never seemed to care.” He chuckles quietly. “Girl has a heart too big for her own good sometimes.”

He nods slowly, not trusting his voice at the moment. Dominic doesn’t seem to mind the silence. At the very least, it doesn’t stop him from talking.

“But for all the good in this world,” his tone has changed; low, somber, and there is a distinct sadness that he can’t – or doesn’t try to – hide, “there’s also evil. Bad, cruel people who don’t care who or what gets hurt by them. And there is no heartbreak in this world to match when someone completely innocent has to die because of it.”

For a very long, heavy minute, neither speak. When he finds his voice, it’s low and hoarse. Not the voice he knows as his own. “Has to die?” he repeats slowly. He understands, and yet he doesn’t.

Dominic sighs, and then sets a hand to his shoulder. His hand is large, warm. It’s a strangely comforting touch. “The bitter truth of this life – the life of a protector, defender of the peace…a warrior of justice, if you will,” there is an unpleasant tightening in his stomach at those words, “is that you can’t save everyone. And sometimes, it’s the innocent who end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He feels the tightening increase. He feels sick. Dominic doesn’t move his hand, and it somehow keeps him steady and anchored to the moment. “I taught my daughter to always see the good in this world. She managed to do it, even when her world fell apart. But I didn’t.” A sigh, “Somewhere along the line, I lost my way. And my baby suffered for it.”

He releases a shuddering sigh, swallowing carefully “Why are you telling me this?”

He has a suspicion that he already knows the answer. But he needs to hear it. Needs to know.

“I told you love is selfish.” Dominic says, without pause, “But there is a reason we fall into it.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes lightly. Gently. “I hope you never have to endure that heartbreak, but if the day does come – and it probably will – your world will shatter. Everything you believed in will stop making sense, and you can quickly lose your way. Unless you learn from my mistake and do one simple thing.”

This time, he doesn’t interrupt. He only listens, with an intensity normally reserved for Sensei. Yet this man – Dominic – feels almost like another kind of sensei, teacher, master. He listens to this man as he has previously only listened to his father…with the captivation now reserved for Celine.

An impossible— _but is anything ever truly impossible?_ —thought is forming in his mind. It’s been forming for a while, actually. And for that reason alone, he has to keep listening. The next words will, some strange and inexplicable way, confirm or deny the idea circulating in his head.

The hand on his shoulder squeezes again. This time, he feels the touch like a burning imprint. He should be afraid. He should pull away, on the wings of this quickly-forming suspicion, but he doesn’t. He can’t. This touch makes him feel safe, even with a complete stranger in the middle of the night, and it becomes incredibly easy to forget what those hands have possibly done.

“Be selfish with the ones you love.” Dominic murmurs. “Take care of them. Keep them close. Always let them know you love them, no matter what. When they make mistakes, forgive them. When you make a mistake,” his tone softens, “beg for forgiveness from those you hurt. Don’t put it off and assume there’ll be another day. Because sometimes, you don’t get another day.”

Silence falls again. He feels warm, basking in an overwhelming sense of peace and understanding. He can’t explain it; it doesn’t truly make sense and there is no logical mindset behind it. But he feels it. It is very real to him, and that’s all that matters.

Dominic looks up. He follows and sees a pale light creeping over the horizon. Dawn. Have they really been here this long?

“You should get going.” Dominic says softly. There is a warning in his tone, but it doesn’t sound threatening. It almost sounds like he’s reminding himself of something.

He nods and stands quickly. He is already a few feet away when he stops. Stops, and turns around. There is one more thing he needs to say. One more thing Dominic needs to hear.

“Celine still loves you.” He speaks softly, but he knows it carries. “She forgave you a long time ago.”

Dominic sighs. It is a low, relieved sound. Almost as though his soul has found peace. Perhaps he has.

“Take care of her, son.”


	3. A Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lovers' sunlit interlude and a new chapter in the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, I decided to bump the rating on this story to "M", given the content of this chapter. It's nothing terribly graphic, but I think it might be a touch above the "Teen and Up" rating. Better safe than sorry.
> 
> Also, yes, this is the conclusion of "Old Ghosts". Stay tuned for "Family Matters," in which April goes office-hunting and Celine finally meets the family!

“Celine,”

His tone is different. Not what she would have expected. Soft, so soft she almost misses it beneath the sound of her parents’ wedding song filling the penthouse. And it sounds reverent, humbled to be in her presence. That is the voice she knows. The voice of her lover.

She looks up. He’s already slipped through the open window and is kneeling before her. There is a look of undeniable respect on his face, and she feels—not for the first time, and not for the last time—a tremor run unchecked through her. She is ordinary. A perfectly un-extraordinary human being. Raised a little differently, with life experiences unique to her (for better or for worse), but still just an ordinary person, one of thousands in this city. And yet when he looks at her…she becomes something else completely.

He reaches out and captures both her hands between his. He is cold, but fire runs out from the connection. There is a strange expression now replacing his earlier look of respect: something tentative, uncertain, even afraid. But when he lifts his head and meets her gaze, his eyes are alive. Burning with emotion. She momentarily forgets to breathe.

“Celine,” he whispers, holding her hands close, “I…I am seven years younger than you.” Some part of her immediately tenses at his opening line. She has heard these words before in movies, and the scripts never allow for happy endings. Still, she says nothing. She just sits and listens.

“You have had life experiences I can’t imagine.” Leonardo continues, voice soft, “And you live in a world I will never truly belong to.”

She’s about to protest. To tell him she doesn’t care about all that, and she would happily lock herself away with him because she doesn’t really belong to this world either, and it would all be worth it because she would be with _him_.

But he doesn’t give her time.

“But I think,” he murmurs, “it’s okay. It doesn’t matter, any of it.”

He’s smiling. He brings her hands over his chest. She can feel the heartbeat beneath her fingertips. It’s the heart she knows. The one she calls her own. The one he’s given to her and only her.

“I love you.” He says, conviction unwavering and eyes steady. She nearly weeps at the words. They alone can break her and leave her needing him in ways no one can describe. “I’m _in love_ with you. I know it probably happened too fast, and maybe it’s still going too fast. But the truth is,” he tightens his grip, “there may not always be a tomorrow for us. So, I want to spend today, and all other days I’ll have, the way they’re meant to be spent.”

“With the ones you love.” She whispers. Tears are slipping down her face and streaking along the lines of her smile. She probably looks ridiculous, but she doesn’t care. She’s heard those words before. Looking into his eyes, she knows he can see it.

“You were right.” Leonardo says, “All I needed was to talk with him.”

“He’s different, isn’t he?” she asks softly, trying to not giggle. She feels absurdly happy. Too happy. She’s flying above the clouds. Someone needs to grab her and yank her back down to Earth. To remind her that he’s confessing to speaking with a wanted fugitive. 

And yet, does he himself not operate outside the so-called normal bounds of society? A vigilante at heart and in spirit. A silent watcher trained to strike, hard, and then disappear into shadows. A lover who came to her as a faceless voice and invisible companion. He is different, just like her father. The two men in her life, strong and powerful protectors, devoted and passionate souls. How could she have ever been meant to _not_ fall in love with him?

“I’m starting to see the family resemblance.” He murmurs affectionately. A pause, and then he adds, “And thanks to both of you, I’m starting to see the world differently.” He leans closer. “The way it’s seen through your eyes.”

She meets him halfway, resting her forehead on his. “Makes the world see a little better, doesn’t it?”

“More than a little,” he answers, nuzzling lightly, “It makes it seem beautiful.”

She smiles. Her cheeks are starting to ache from the delight apparent across her face. She could care less. “Then let’s keep seeing it that way.”

He gave a soft sound of agreement—she is certain of it—but it’s lost within the kiss. She isn’t sure who instigated it. Probably her, but it could have been him. Does it really matter?

At some point, her hands are freed, and his relocate to her hair. Sliding through her curls, cupping around her skull and drawing her deeper into the kiss. She is forced to break the kiss first, drawing in slow and heavy breaths as she meets his gaze. Blue against blue; only a few shades separate the two.

Her teeth catch the lower lip as she examines his gaze. She shouldn’t be so nervous, or even hesitant. They’ve done this before. She knows his every look. The line of his mouth when he’s serious or angry. The twitch of his left side, upper lip, when he’s trying to not smile. The broad and open form of his true smile. The way he turns his eyes away because the movie made him cry. The tilt of his head when he’s deeply focused. She knows them all.

Except this one.

This one…it’s different. His eyes are both ablaze and clouded dark. There is a clarity and a hunger there, both of which are unfamiliar. Her body, however, seems to recognize it. A tingle runs unchecked through her limbs, before collecting somewhere low in her core. The resulting thrum of heat is almost unbearable. And at the same time, she is content to be consumed by the sensation.

“Celine,” his voice is low and saturated in the hunger present in his eyes.

She releases a breath she doesn’t remember holding. “Now?” she whispers.

“Yes,” Leonardo answers in matching tones. He shifts closer; both hands run down to her waist, then drag a slow, heavy touch along her thighs. “Please. I need you.”

She nearly broke at his touch; the words still echoing in her ears shatter what little—if any—restraint she still has. He seems to sense it, or maybe he sees it in her eyes, because the next thing he does it kiss her neck. Again. And again. And again. His hands slip beneath the hem of her nightdress, pushing the fabric up to bunch at her waist. She shivers slightly, but doesn’t stop him. This is new for them – for him to be in charge and take control. She wants to see how far it will go tonight. She so rarely gets to see him as the leader, the dominant force of nature he must be in combat. The thought alone makes the fire within her core burn along her veins.

The slight chill from early morning air through an open window hits her skin as he guides the dress over her head and drops it aside. He then pauses and examines her in silence. He does this every time, like he’s still trying to believe she’s real. That she’s with him.

Before, he’s only seen her in shadows and by dim light. Now, the sun is rising fast in the sky, and her living room is catching the pale glow of morning. She instinctively moves to cover her exposed skin, but he doesn’t let her.

“No, Celine,” he whispers, tone much lower now, “Don’t even dare.”

His hands slide up her flat stomach, to the base of her ribs, and then to her chest. The sound that escapes is very probably a whimper. He responds with a low and appreciative sigh before burying his mouth in the valley between her breasts. Her fingers clench down into the cushions, head pressing back into the couch.

“Leonardo…”

“Beautiful,” he whispers against her skin, “You are so beautiful, Celine. Like fire. The candle leading me back night after night.” His mouth descends to her stomach; her hands curl tightly around his shoulders. “I couldn’t explain what drew me to you in the first place. Maybe I still can’t. Maybe it won’t make sense to anyone but you and I.”

He pulls back, and she wordlessly cries out, reaching blindly for him. Then, without warning, he’s suddenly in her arms. His body is now bare, stripped of his protective layers. She doesn’t have the slightest idea how or when he managed to disrobe. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the feel of his muscled body against her; his hulking form towering over her and reminding her just how small she is in comparison. His shadow alone devours her.

“We’re just meant to be together.” He murmurs, making the complicated seem ridiculously simple with the words. “My soul knows yours. Recognizes it. And needs to be near it and with it at all times. Near you. With you.”

There is probably some point of missing or incorrect logic in there to be questioned. But she _is_ the one who told him to not question everything. It’s only fair she follow her own advice.

She tilts her head to kiss his jaw, slowly. “I love you.” She whispers, breathless, “I—” her next words suffer a quick death as she replaces them with a broken gasp. Her fingers contract tightly around him; her body tenses and relaxes in sporadic intervals, trying to get closer, trying to escape, but always wanting him. Needing him. 

He hums softly against her temple, kissing there while his fingers continue slow, delicate caresses between her legs. “And I you.” He promises. “More than anyone. I love you.” Another kiss. Her hands are shaking around his shoulders. “I’ll fight for you. I’ll die for you. I’ll do anything it takes to be yours and only yours. _I love you_.”

Her lips, quivering with uneven breaths, lift in a slow smile. “Are you making a vow, Leonardo?”

He smiles into her hair. “If you think you can put up with me.”

She leans back, enough to meet his gaze. Her smile grows. “Persuade me.”

There’s a quick flash in his eyes, a gleam that sends shivers up her spine. In the next second, he’s swept her up in his arms and is making a quick path to her bedroom. Determined to keep his fire burning, she kisses a long his jaw and neck, paying special attention to a place just above his hammering pulse.

His hands tighten around her, “Celine,” his voice is a low growl; she smirks quietly, “You know what that does to me.”

“Obviously,” she purrs, “or else I wouldn’t do it.”

He growls again and drops with her onto the bed. Her hands reach for him again, unwilling to allow space between them. He complies, balancing over her on both knees and hands. There is a moment of suspension, when she looks up into his eyes and he looks down into hers. His hands settle on her hips, stroking slowly. Gently. She releases a slow sigh, shivers, and carefully shifts her position against the mattress, waiting. Her hands slip down to his sides, stroking tenderly. His eyes never leave hers. There is so much being spoken from the gaze alone, and she thinks - yet again – they truly have a language all their own. No one else can ever understand it.

She shivers again, fingers clutching down against his waist, as their bodies are finally joined. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. Yet each time manages to feel new. His body becomes warm, instead of cold, and the fire he says lies within her is shared between them as both fall into rhyme with each other, engaging in a dance only they know. A dance unique to only him and only her.

His mouth kisses her shoulder, then her neck, and finally her lips. And he repeats the pattern again, deviating from time to time, but always kissing her skin. Worshipping her without words. Her arms curl around his neck, hand cupping his skull, and somehow finds his mouth with hers again. When she misses his mouth, she kisses his face. His cheek, his jaw, his brow line. Wherever she can find to kiss him, she does.

At some point, she opens her eyes and looks at him again. The sun is fully risen now, flooding the room in golden light. She’s never seen him like this: highlighted by radiant hues that cling to his body; the dark and pale green tones of his flesh suddenly illuminated and almost glowing. The thin sheen of sweat covering him catches the sunlight like wet paint. His eyes are shadowed, and yet they burn, gleaming like ice beneath sunlight. He looks like a newly-crafted masterpiece upon a canvas. Her canvas.

Hers and hers alone.

***

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

She grumbles quietly, shifting beneath the covers as the intrusive sound interrupts her sleep. For a moment, she thinks to ignore it. To simply curl deeper within her mattress and comforter and sheets and return to sleep against her lover. Then, her leg brushes along the mattress and finds nothing. Her eyes open slowly, confirming her suspicion: she is alone. But, atop the second pillow, there is a small piece of paper.

She sits up, the sheets dropping carelessly to her lap. The paper only has two words written on it, but she already knows who wrote them.

_Till tonight._

She smiles. And, rather absurdly, kisses the words.

 _Knock. Knock._ “C’mon, West,” a voice calls from the door, “open up.”

Charming. She rolls her eyes with a sigh. Just the person she wants to see. _Nevertheless…_

Quickly pulling on her robe, she consents to answer the summons. Detective Marx is on the other side of the door. He runs a glance over her disheveled and mussed curls, one hand keeping the bodice of her robe together, and the multiple dark marks along her neck. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Unfortunately not,” she answers smoothly, brushing a loose tendril away, “What can I do for you now?”

Marx scoffs, “Thought you’d like to know the news before the media gets a hold of this.” He says dryly, looking less than pleased about the whole matter, “Your old man turned himself in this morning. And he was kind enough to tell us where to find his little pals.”

She keeps her expression neutral. “Congratulations. One less mess for you to deal with, no?”

“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, fetching his notebook from the coat pocket. He flips through the pages before settling on one. “Reminds me. He asked me to deliver you a little message. Repayment for all his help.” He adds, sounds terribly displeased to be indebted to a criminal.

Her eyebrow lifts, now genuinely interested and slightly confused. After a short pause, he continues, “Says to tell you… _he’s a keeper_.” Marx raises both eyebrows at her, “Know what the old man’s talking about?”

She can’t keep the smile from her face and doesn’t try. “I might have a clue.” She nods. And then she closes the door on him. Her other hand clutches the paper a little tighter.

Till tonight.

***

“Gentlemen,” April calls out, propping herself against the entrance; one hand is carrying a bag full of soda, and the other is balancing three boxes of pizza, “might I have your attention?”

It’s a rhetorical question; she’s had their attention—undivided, especially in Mikey’s case—since she strolled in with food. Raphael turns from the couch and barks out an announcement for the two missing brothers. She hears a scuffling from the back, voices murmuring, and then Donatello emerges, most likely from the lab. His face brightens to see her, and she returns it with a smile. The urge to hug him emerges, but she’ll wait until her hands aren’t full.

“Where’s Leo?” Raphael asks.

“He’s with Sensei.” Donatello answers. “He said to go ahead without him.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” Mikey declares, pouncing for the pizza. She lets him have it, lest she lose an arm. He and Raph immediately engage in a tussle over the boxes. She quietly retrieves two slices from the one untouched box and makes her way to Donnie.

He accepts her offering with a small smile. “So,” he says, “since my brothers lack the manners to ask…what’s the occasion?”

Her smile grows, “You, Donatello, are looking at New York’s officially brand-new Private Investigator.”

His grin quickly matches hers. “Congratulations.” He says, genuinely pleased. “So…my whole padding of the resume is forgiven?”

She shrugs. Then leans forward and sets a warm kiss to his cheek. When she pulls back, she’s still smiling and he’s turning a rather fetching shade of mauve.

“Does that answer your question?” she murmurs. There’s a little sheen of her lip gloss left on his skin. She should probably wipe it away…but she’ll leave it there a moment longer. She likes how it looks on him.

He coughs into his fist. “Um…yes. I…I think it does.” He coughs again. “Thank you.” The color in his cheeks darkens. “I mean, for this. The food. The food, not—not the—I mean, thank you for that too…I think. Not that I was expecting it, or…”

She should probably save him from himself. But she’ll let him go a moment longer.

***

“Sit, my son,” Splinter murmurs, watching carefully as Leonardo kneels before him. “You said there was a matter of which you needed to speak?”

“Yes, Father,” he knows his sensei is surprised. Father is not a title often exchanged between them. But tonight, it is appropriate.

Splinter meets his gaze for a silent moment, studying him carefully. Then he nods. “Then speak, my son.”

He takes a moment to compose himself. This is the moment he’s been anticipating and dreading for months. It’s going to be painful. He’ll have to confess the lies; the excuses and unexplained absences; the rules he broke in venturing above ground; the reasons why he didn’t speak of all this sooner. Above all, he’ll have to bare his heart, which he has never been good at doing.

But it must be done.


End file.
